


Six Nights, Four Cities

by westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Angst, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-03-11
Updated: 2003-03-11
Packaged: 2019-05-30 17:33:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15101624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist/pseuds/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist
Summary: Leo/Donna. A few nights in the course of something bigger.





	Six Nights, Four Cities

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

Title: Six Nights, Four Cities (1/1)

Author: Michelle K. 

Archive: My site. Anyone else, ask.

Rating: R (sexuality)

Category: Donna/Leo

Spoilers: (vaguely) through 'The Two Bartlets.'

Summary: A few nights in the course of something bigger.

Disclaimer: Not mine. 'Tis Aaron's and NBC's. Don't sue - unless you need some extra change.

*

One - D.C.

It's odd, she thinks, for someone to make a hotel their home. Hotels are for vacations and illicit affairs, not for spending night after normal night. He's done it, though, for two years. She wonders if he likes it, if being a resident comes with the same perks as being a visitor. Do the maids come more or less often? Is there a mint on his pillow every time he enters?

She wonders, and she thinks that one day she'll ask him. Later, when they're both clothed and his fingers aren't touching the side of her breast. 

Later, maybe she'll talk to him. 

He kisses her and his mouth tastes like cigarettes. She thought he didn't smoke - maybe she'll ask him about that too. 

She falls back onto the mattress, and she's surprised when he doesn't follow her body. "Leo," she says with a question in her voice. 

"Are you sure you--" he begins.

"Yes, I'm sure. I wouldn't be here if I didn't want to be," she says. "And I'm not a virgin, so you don't have to worry about corrupting me." She's joking, but he's not smiling. 

She wonders if he'd rather she were a woman of pure snow, untouched by any other. She wonders if that's what he had the first time with his wife; she wonders if he'd rather have that all over again. 

She knows she'll never ask him about that. 

He's still, eyes staring into the air. She wonders if he's deep in thought or just pretending to be somewhere else. 

"If you don't--" she begins. 

"I want to," he says, eyes moving back to hers. "It's just--"

"--There's no turning back," Donna says. 

"Yeah."

"Well, we're in bed together *naked.* If we can turn back *now* without anything changing, I'd be quite disturbed by the both of us." She's still joking, but this time he smiles. 

When he kisses her it's slow, soft, tentative. She doesn't kiss back as politely. 

"I wouldn't be here if I didn't want to be," she says again. It's gentler, less flippant. 

"Neither would I," he replies.

She's not quite sure what he means by that. Maybe she'll ask him one day. But now, his hand is reaching up the inside of her thigh. 

Questions will have to be figured out later.

*

Night Two - K.C.

She thinks she could fall in love with him; she always thinks that in the beginning. It's her deep optimism, her feeling that anything is possible. That feeling's remained intact through a series of one-night stands, through bad relationships with men who sneered at the majority of her thoughts. 

It's just who she is, so she can't help but look at him and say to herself, "I could love him." She wonders if he could love her. The optimism says, "yes," but she's not quite as sure. 

"This room isn't as nice as yours. The one back in D.C., I mean," she says to get the conversation going. 

"Well, this is just a temporary thing. It doesn't have to be perfect." 

"I'm just saying." She pauses. "Can I ask you something?"

He raises his eyebrows. "What?"

She doesn't want to go too far, ask him something that he doesn't want her to know. "Are you from Chicago or Boston?" 

His stare is one of incredulity. "That's what you wanted to ask me? I was expecting something a little weightier."

"There seems to be conflicting reports about that. It's a source of constant controversy."

"Really?"

"No."

"Okay." He pauses. "I grew up in Boston, moved to Chicago after my father committed suicide. I was thirteen, I guess."

"Oh." She tries to act nonchalant, like she knew it already, like it's no big deal. "Why?"

"Why'd he kill himself?" 

"Yeah."

He shrugs. "It was after a fight with my mother. He...he was an alcoholic, he'd become bitter. He just wanted it to end." 

She wonders if he ever felt that way; instead, she says, "That must've been hard." She feels lame for the sentiment; she might as well have mumbled a comment about the color of the sky. 

"It was." 

"I'm sorry."

He shakes his head. "I hardly think you're responsible."

"But, still, I'm sorry," she says. She places her hand on his. "I mean, I had an easy childhood. Going through what you went through..." She doesn't like the condescension creeping into her voice, even if he doesn't seem to notice it. So, she starts telling him about her mother, her sisters, the boy down the street who always seemed half in love with her. 

He tells her about meeting Jed Bartlet, about the moment when he knew that they could win, growing up with a group of strong-willed women, not knowing what his purpose in life was. 

Facts are exchanged. And, somewhere in between classical music and favorite books, his hand slides up her leg. She giggles before kissing him; he smiles before sliding inside her. 

She leaves in the middle of the night before anyone can discover them, leaves with her clothes askew and her mind filled with little facts about him. 

She only sleeps for a couple of hours, but she sleeps soundly.

*

Nigh Three - L.A.

She's not sure what it is about L.A. that's making her happy, but she's sure it's something. Maybe it's in the water or the perpetual blue of the sky. But, whatever it is, it's affecting her. 

She thinks it might be affecting him, too; he's smiled at her more than a few times, he laughed at her incredibly lame joke. And, with other people around, he placed his hand on her hip. Granted, it was fleeting and she was the only one who noticed, but it still counted. 

He's kinda been acting like her boyfriend; maybe that's what's making her happy. 

"We should come here more often," she drops lightly. She's half-dressed; she was supposed to leave his room an hour ago, but nothing's really made her feel motivated to go. 

"Once in a blue moon is enough," he replies. 

"You know you love it," she declares. "There's the sun--"

"Which can be found...well, anywhere."

"The beaches--"

"Which can even be found in New Jersey."

"The mellow atmosphere--"

"Which is highly overrated."

Her face becomes a mock pout. "Can you relent on anything?"

"No, not really."

"Well, what about Margaret?"

He blinks. "Yeah, what about Margaret?"

"Being in L.A. makes Margaret happy. You should want to make Margaret happy." She shifts on the bed, moving herself closer to him. "And, it makes me happy as well. So, the combined sensations of making us both happy should translate into love of L.A."

"I think you're giving me a headache," he says. 

"That could easily be fixed," she says. Her mouth is over his as she straddles him. 

"I thought you were going," he says, but she knows he's not serious by the half-smile curling his lips. 

"I could make a really bad joke right now, but I will spare you," she says. 

"Good," he replies. Then, he looks at her, looks at her like he wants her. Like he cares about her. This, she decides, is much better than perpetual sunlight or Margaret's joy. 

This feels better than anything. 

She presses her lips against his, but it's he who sweeps his tongue against her bottom lip, he who deepens the kiss.

"So, I think I'll go now," she says when the kiss ends. 

He doesn't say anything. Instead, he starts to undo the buttons on her blouse. 

"I really should go," she continues. 

"Where do you need to be?"

"Nowhere, really. I just thought I should give you the faint illusion of being in charge." 

He slides her shirt down her shoulders. "You broke the illusion now, though."

"Curses, foiled again." 

Soon, she's shed of all her clothes. He kisses all the places she's ticklish; she smiles against his skin. And it feels more playful somehow, more relaxed. Maybe they are a normal couple, she thinks. Maybe he is her boyfriend. 

Maybe, she loves him already.

Her fingers grip onto his back as he moves inside her. She doesn't try to be quiet when she comes, and he doesn't chastise her for not being careful. 

Yes. This seems like an actual relationship.

*

Night Four - D.C.

She loves him. It's no longer a question, a maybe, or a possibility. 

She loves him. That's all she thinks about as she watches him stare at the muted television.

She loves him.

Then, it occurs to her that she hasn't asked him any of her original, albeit frivolous, questions. She wonders if she should ask him now. On one hand, it would kill the silence. On the other hand, it seems that he's perfectly happy with the lack of sound. 

She's not pleased with it, though. So, she says, "What's the maid service like when you're practically living in a hotel?"

He looks over at her, blinks. "I don't know. The same, I guess. It looks tidy when I come home." 

The silence again, and it's deafening. But even worse, it's unexplainable. And she hates not knowing what's wrong - hates not knowing how to make everything better. 

"What about mints? Do they put mints on your pillow?"

"I requested they not. They always get lost in the sheets."

"Oh." Another silence, another thing to grate on every fiber of her being. "Is there something wrong?" 

He sighs. Then, "CJ knows."

"About what?"

"She knows about us," he says, and the tone of his voice makes it sound more important than she thinks it is.

"Yeah? And?"

"And, if she's figured it out, soon other people will."

He sounds terrified. And that makes her scared, too - but for decidedly different reasons. 

"And that would be the worst thing that ever happened?" she says, and she's ashamed of the sadness in her voice. 

"We don't need any more scandal, Donna. I'm just thinking that we should be more discreet. In L.A.--"

He acted like he actually gave a damn about her. "--I know. That was my fault."

"It wasn't your fault." His voice drips with irritation, but he places his hand on hers in a tender, comforting way. 

He's still acting like he gives a damn about her. Maybe that means he actually does. 

Maybe she's just fooling herself. 

"We should be more discreet," she says, although she can't imagine how they could be any more secretive. "That could work. Couldn't it?"

"Yeah," he says. He places a kiss on her cheek.

"It'll work," she says, if only because she does love him. And she has to believe in that. 

She loves him, so she kisses him. Kisses her way down his chest. Kisses her way across his hips. Takes him into her mouth. 

"Donna," he whispers sharply. 

She loves him, so she doesn't mind that he grips her hair a *little* too hard, doesn't mind that he thrusts into her mouth a *tad* too forcefully. He barely makes any sound when he comes. 

So, when she's back next to him she says, "That's probably the most zen orgasm I've ever heard." 

"I don't know," he says uncomfortably. 

Sometimes, he confounds her. He can have sex with her without any sort of tension, slip his fingers inside of her, taste himself on her mouth... But, utter the word 'orgasm,' and he doesn't know what to do with himself. 

But she loves him, so she's fine with his eccentricities.

His lips travel her body in a pattern not unlike hers. She arches her hips against his tongue; she's not sure if she's doing it too hard. But she knows that she can't make a sound, not when they're being discreet. So she bites on her knuckles, digs her teeth in until she can taste the faintest hint of blood. 

She loves him, so she decides it's a welcome mark on her skin.

She loves him, so she doesn't ask him what he feels about her. She loves him, so she pretends she's not afraid of the answer he would give. 

*

Night Five - N.Y.C.

She looks out the window, watches the lights flicker against the sky. Her eyes drift downward, down to the sidewalk where all the people are transformed into ants. 

There's a statement here, she thinks, about her place in the world. Because lately, she's been feeling miniscule, unimportant, easy to lose in the crowd. She's been feeling like Leo McGarry's dirty little secret. 

She hasn't been feeling quite like herself.

"Don't stand there like that," he says. 

"Don't stand here like what?" she asks as she turns around. 

He looks up from Wednesday's New York Times and says, "You know what I mean." 

His eyes return quickly to his reading. She waits for him to look back at her; he doesn't. 

She closes the drapes all the way. "I don't see what the big deal is," she says. 'After all,' she adds to herself, 'you don't want to look at me. What's in it for a stranger?' 

"It makes me uncomfortable," he says. 

"I'm sure there are plenty of naked people in New York. Nobody would even notice me," she says with a smile. 

He looks up at her. "People would notice you, Donna." But in a second his eyes are back on the paper, so she seriously doubts the sincerity of his words. 

"Yeah." She pauses. "I should go," she says. 

"Yeah, I guess you should."

She wants to make a comment about being careful; wants to be bitter about placing her hand over her own mouth; wants to tell him that slinking out of a hotel room at three-thirty in the morning is no way to have a relationship. 

Most of all she wants - no, *needs* - him to care. 

But she doesn't think he would. So she just puts on her clothes and exits with a weak, "See you tomorrow."

"Okay," is the distracted reply she hears as the door closes. 

She needs something more than that. 

*

Night Six - D.C.

She's not sure that she loves him anymore. It's a depressing realization, especially when she takes into account that she never said the words aloud in the first place. "I..." she begins. "I can't do this anymore." She's fully clothed, and proud of that fact. She'd already decided she wasn't going to allow him one last time, to let his mouth on hers silence rational thought. 

He stares at her, his blank face a parody of confusion. "Why'd you mean?"

He's not a dumb man, so she replies, "You know what I mean, Leo. You know what I mean."

"Look, I know we haven't spent much time together, but we've *both* been busy."

She sighs. "Jesus, do you think this is about our schedules? I know perfectly well that we can't spend every moment of the day together. I know we can't walk down the street hand in hand, singing love songs. Well, no one does that."

"Damn it," he mutters. "What are you trying to say?"

He's more irritated with her than he's ever been; she doesn't really blame him. Her mind is racing with a million different thoughts and she can't figure out which one to use. "I mean that I could handle everything if I thought you still cared. But you don't. That's obvious." 

Hurt creeps into his eyes, but she doesn't feel guilty. "Donna...of course I care. I love you." The affectionate sentiment seems like an afterthought. 

But, really, all of these comments are afterthoughts. It's over. She doesn't know whether to laugh or cry, so she just shakes her head. "That doesn't matter. It doesn't matter now. I'm sorry." 

"It's not your fault," he says. 

"That's not true." She knows she holds some blame for this. In her lower moments, she wonders if it's all her fault. "I'm sorry," she repeats. 

She walks out without another word. 

*End*


End file.
